


Lois Parry

by amusedrhyme (lazarus_girl)



Series: A Patch of Blue [5]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23840158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/amusedrhyme
Summary: On duty the night of Lucille and Cyril’s first date, Valerie waits for Lucille’s return. Torn between her growing feelings and the fear of ruining their friendship, Valerie wonders what it might mean to tell Lucille the truth.“Lucille stirs things you thought lost, or at the very least, forgotten.”
Relationships: Lucille Anderson/Valerie Dyer
Series: A Patch of Blue [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1479239
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Lois Parry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassiopeiasara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeiasara/gifts).



> Sorry for taking so long to update this, I needed time to add some finishing touches. This chapter represents another shift of gear within S8, but also for Valerie and Lucille. Due to canon events and the story concept, I’ve had to get a little more creative! Rest assured, despite Cyril’s presence, this story will always belong to Valerie and Lucille.

You shouldn’t be waiting up like this. Not really. It’s entirely feasible for you to be of course, you’re first on call. Nurse Dyer to the rescue. Cape and all. You’re up and waiting, with half an ear out for the phone. The tea Phyllis made you before she went to bed has long since gone cold. The crossword you started earlier in the evening to keep you awake has been untouched for a while now. Your mind is on other things. Not all of them are your patients, which is shameful enough on its own, but you can’t help wondering how Lucille’s date is going. That’s the truly shameful thing. You have no right to wonder.

You shouldn’t be thinking anything of the touches and the looks or the kind words. That’s just Lucille.

Cyril seems a perfectly nice young man. Exactly the kind of man Lucille’s parents would want for her. Trixie, Phyllis, and Sister Monica Joan are already writing the wedding invitations. You’re not. You’re still here watching the clock, waiting to sweep in, because she’s sweet, and kind and you don’t want her to be hurt. Lucille doesn’t need saving, not anymore. The choice is hers to make, should it present itself.

She doesn’t fall in love at first sight. She’s no fool. Not like you.

It makes you angry sometimes, feeling this way. Feeling things you have no right to feel. _Feeling_ at all.

_“You look … exactly like you.”_

It’s not the greatest lie you’ve ever told, but it’s one of them. Not because she didn’t look perfect, but _because_ she did. It was so easy, getting pulled along with the tide of exuberance, buoyed by Trixie, and Phyllis, and Lucille’s sweet, nervous excitement. You wanted to reassure her, and tell her everything would be fine. She’d have a wonderful time.

She got swept up in the moment, and so did you. The hope. The romance. The dress and the hair and nails to distract you. Paying such attention to her, being close, touching, was entirely permissible. Trixie encouraged it even, bringing you all together to help make her over and settle her obvious nerves. You’re close to her, but not nearly close enough. Pretty distractions, the same sort you’ve buried yourself in all your life.

Until, they didn’t work so well anymore. Until she did that little turn in her dress, so unsure of her reflection. The world turned a little slower. Your heart beat that little bit faster, hammering out betrayal that only you could hear.

 _“Beautiful,”_ Trixie called her, said as easy as breathing, lost in the exhale from her cigarette. You wanted to tell Lucille that, so much. You wanted it to be that easy. The truth sat on your tongue, stubbornly refusing to budge, so you had to cover, stupidly, awkwardly, hoping that no one would notice.

If they did, they never said a word, whether out of politeness or fear, you’ll never know.

She is beautiful. Unknowingly so, in a way that makes you ache in the most knowable way in the world. Lucille stirs things you thought lost, or at the very least, forgotten. It’s a neat trick, the closeness you have, the friendship you share, it means you can explain things away. It means you can pretend you don’t want to be the one to take her out, you don’t want to be the focus of everyone’s giddy attention. You don’t want to love her.

But, you do, and there’s nothing to be done, because you have no claim and no rights. To have something like that, you’d need to be honest with her, and you haven’t really been that in a lot of ways for a long time. You’re not lying exactly; you’re just not telling the entire truth. It’s a half lie, for someone who leads a half life, sneaking away to darkened corners and into other worlds behind a green door.

It sounds whimsical, magical, when you frame it that way. Like Dorothy and the Emerald City. Like being who you are is like the best kind of secret, when it feels like the worst, because it gets you into scrapes and costs you things that can’t ever be bought back: Jobs. Friends. Happiness. Broken heels. Skinned knees. A split lip. A bloody nose. A black eye.

You’ve gotten close to telling something like the truth sometimes, in your late night conversations over tea or hot chocolate; sometimes with Trixie, sometimes with Phyllis, most often with Lucille, labouring over the crossword, swapping the pencil between you, shoulder to shoulder, giggling over daft answer that have the right letters but they’re not right at all. That’s when you fall in love with her that little bit more. That’s when you get brave and hope that heart of hers is big enough to deal with your truth, and love you anyway, even if she can’t love you the way you want.

These past few days, all you can think of is Trixie’s young patient, Lois, and how a different lie and a different truth stand between her and who she loves. You can’t help but wonder if they’d be as kind about you during the dinner table conversation if they knew your truth and knew who you truly were. Would Phyllis and Trixie accept you as the friend you’ve always been. Would the Sisters turn against you? Would Lucille turn her back? Would your home, your safety net, suddenly be gone, like they have for so many people you’ve met or just heard spoken of in hushed whispers, criminals one and all.

It’s worse now Cyril’s arrived. There’s someone new, someone else between you and Lucille who wasn’t before. She doesn’t feel nearly as close. It’s gotten too easy, and you’ve gotten too comfortable. It was bound to happen eventually. Who wouldn’t love _her_ at first sight? You can’t blame Cyril. You can’t blame the bakery boys and the draymen who wolf whistle and make her blush, prompting you to glare on her behalf, because you’re that little bit wiser to what they’re after. It’s so much worse for you because now you have to hide and build up walls when Lucille’s been so good at taking them down. It’s worse because you want her. You’re after something too.

Yes. You want her. Like those bakery boys and the draymen. You want to lay claim, so Cyril can’t take her away from you, even if she’s never really belonged to you at all, because she’s a person with her own feelings, needs, and desires. It’s a hideous thing, to even think of bargaining for someone’s affection, but he brings out this childish, irrational jealousy in you that’s getting harder and harder to hide. Lots of things are. Deep down, you know you’d never really do it, you’d never make her choose. It’s cruel and unfair, and you think far too much of her for that.

That’s the thing you’re most ashamed of, letting all this build and bloom in your head when you have no real idea of what Lucille truly thinks or feels about you. She tells you how important you are, holds your hand and your gaze while she says it, so you know how much it matters and how heavy with meaning those words are. It would be better if things were out in the open. Loving, wanting, it makes a thief and a liar of you. It makes you scared and afraid, just like young Lois. You’re not so sure Lucille could ever be as brave, as loving as Paul is.

It’s a lot to ask. It’s a lot to give away. It’s a lot to lose if you’ve misread the signs.

Watching Lucille from the steps of Nonnatus with Sister Monica Joan, as she and Cyril set off, it felt like you were losing something, that you were giving something away you’d never truly get back. You were glad of the distraction of helping Sister Monica Joan inside. Gladder still for the tea that needed making and the cake slicing. Taking care of her is easier than taking care of yourself.

A comforting lie.

Time on your hands is dangerous; it makes you fret and worry. Snowballing, spiralling, disasters and catastrophes. Moments where you lose. Imagining sirens and Dr Turner, panicked faces and telephone calls. Sergeant Woolfe at the door, looking grave. Moments where you win, confess all, and she kisses you on the lips instead of the forehead, and you’re the one to sweep her off her feet now. You’re the source of excitement and awed tones, Trixie would smile that glorious way of hers. Phyllis would look on fondly, as if she always knew. _“Proud of you, lass,”_ she’d say in the same soft tone she uses for the postcards you all get from Nurse Mount and Nurse Busby.

You’re the one who gets to love her and lend her name affectionate epithets.

 _Darling.  
_ _Dearest.  
_ _Lover._

You’re not really sure of anything anymore, because the lateness of the day and the ticking clock, and the fact you’ve been drifting in and out of sleep. Dreaming of hope. Dreaming of her. Dreaming of an impossible future.

“Oh, you needn’t have waited up for me,” Lucille is suddenly there and you blink back surprise. You never heard her come in.

It’s well past the curfew the Sisters allow.

“On call,” you answer, squinting at the sudden brightness of the kitchen, drowsy and disoriented. “But I would’ve anyway, you know that.”

That’s the truth, at least you can still do that some of the time.

“I know,” her voice is small and soft, but it’s rounded with a sadness you’ve never heard before.

You rub at the back of your neck, stiff from resting with your head on the table. You only meant to rest your eyes for a moment. The pressure and the heat from those phantom kisses aren’t quite gone.

“Did you two have a nice evening?” you ask, wanting to know and not wanting to know at the same time.

“Of course,” she replies, unsarcastically cool. Guarded. She’s still holding on to her handbag. Gripping a little too tightly to the handles. She’s never like this with you. Always an open book, from the very first day you met.

“Lu,” you begin, turning to face her fully, “is everything alright?”

It’s a useless question. Instinctively, you move toward her, getting up from the chair, compelled to reach out, but she moves away, leaving you standing at the foot of the stairs.

“Fine,” comes the reply, far too quickly, as she begins to climb them, carefully avoiding the treads that creak.

Something isn’t right. Now she’s the one telling half truths or no truths at all.

It’s the same voice she uses on the phone to her mother when she’s holding back, when she doesn’t want to tell her about the bigots and the words they spit out, refusing her help.

“ _Lucille_ ,” you labour the word, elongating, tilting your head to catch her eye when she turns back towards you, but she avoids it.

You’re not Lois. She’s not Paul. Trixie can’t help you fix this.

You want to close the distance between you, rushing to level with her on the landing outside her and Phyllis’ room. You’re less careful about the noise.

“Please tell me what’s wrong?”

Above all else. All the feelings and the confusion, you still care, you want to know she’s OK. Your mind is racing now, coming up with worst case scenarios. You know she’s not had much experience with men, and you’re wondering now if Cyril tried his luck, pushed her too hard, wanted more than she was willing to give. He’ll get a swift kick in the nuts the next time you see him if that’s the case. You hope she was brave enough to heed Trixie’s similar advice if she needed to.

You can’t bear to think of her being hurt in any way.

She’s right there, but she feels miles away for the very first time.

You want to reach out and take her hand like you have so many times before, after Cath, and Clarice, baby Kirk, and Jeannie. You want to pull her close, and comfort her, and soothe her obvious anxiousness, but something is stopping you, and it’s not because you don’t care. You’ve never cared about anyone more.

Then, you remember.

Those walls.  
The distance.  
The wanting.

You can already feel it. Things you both used to let happen so easily can’t happen at all anymore.

“I’m fine, Valerie, really.”

There it is again. _Fine_. Valerie not Val, as you’ve become accustomed.

“Lucille,” it sounds like a warning.

“I think,” she begins, and glances away, cautiously, barely able to look at you. “It’s been a long day, that’s all.”

You don’t believe her for a moment. The sentence had a different ending. You’re certain. Stepping closer, you search her face, her eyes, for something, _anything_ , approaching a better answer. For another truth of a different kind. Your hand brushes hers for a moment, and then she pulls away. She’s never done this before. She’s never hidden things or been less than honest with you. She’s never told half lies, as you know she is now. Whether they’re omissions to protect you or keep you at bay, you’re not sure.

This is about more than a pretty dress and a date with a nice young man. It’s always been about more. You’ve been on the edge of something for months now, teetering. The worry for her, the fear at what she might truly be upset about is enough to pull you back from the precipice. Again. You’ve fallen too hard, but you also care too much. She’s your friend, a dear, _dear_ friend.

Her name has barely formed on your lips again before you hear the shrill ringing of the telephone.

 _Bloody hell_.

Timing has never been your strong suit.

“You should answer that,” she says, small and solemn.

“Wait,” is all you offer, the answer and the word feeling much bigger and heavier than it really should.

Reluctantly, you rush back down the stairs, duty tugging you from where you want to be, and towards where you’re needed most, like it always has. You’ve never wanted to turn your back on what’s expected of you more.

“Nonnatus House, midwife speaking.”

It trips off the tongue. Reflex.

You wish you could ignore the worried father, Mickey Jenkins, on the end of the line, and the piercing scream of his wife, Linda, in labour. You wish you could put the phone right back down again and race back up the stairs, but you don’t, because you’re not allowed. Nurse Dyer isn’t allowed, even if Valerie really, _really_ wanted her to be.

“Don’t you worry now, Mr Jenkins,” you heave out a short breath, steeling yourself. “I’ll be there for you and Linda as soon as I can.”

When you turn around, phone in hand, Mickey Jenkins still talking, his panic growing, Lucille isn’t there anymore. All you’re left with is the brush of the bedroom door against the carpet, and the unmistakable catch of the lock when it closes.

“Mickey, Mickey, listen to me now,” you wait for him to calm a little. “I have to put the phone down, I’ll be there, quick as a flash, you’ll see.”

On the line, your voice is cheery and light, betraying the slow, heavy dread that’s settled in your heart.

Whatever you and Lucille had, it’s changed.

The truth slipped right through your fingers before you could catch it, if it was ever really there. Just like those dreams. Those wants. Those phantom kisses.

Whatever you had, it’s gone.

Grabbing your cape and your bag and rushing to the aid of Linda and Mickey Jenkins is easy, it means you can do your job and take control. You don’t have to think about Lucille, or Cyril, and the half truths and the half lies. For now, for Linda, you can put aside everything else. Linda doesn’t need Valerie; she needs Nurse Dyer.

That, you can do. That, you can be.

For now.


End file.
